


can you carry it with no regrets?

by ardj18



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hand-wavey Science, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery Is Not A Straight Line, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ignores everything after the winter soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardj18/pseuds/ardj18
Summary: Four months after the Project Insight disaster, the Winter Soldier shows up in New York. Steve has a ring around his neck and his own demons to face, even if he won't admit it.In which recovery is not a straight line, but the path still leads home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 170





	can you carry it with no regrets?

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled across this story, basically finished (it needed like half of the last scene) on my google docs and decided to have a go at finishing it, despite having drifted away from the fandom recently. So I hope y'all enjoy. The working title was Angsty Steve Angst, and the actual title is from "Weight of Living, Pt. I" by Bastille in case anyone is interested.
> 
> This is set firmly in that post-Winter Soldier world we all lived in for a while before canon came and promptly fucked everything up. So like, they all live in the tower and have movie nights and consistent characterization.
> 
> Also, just as a note, I know absolutely nothing about neuroscience and basically just bulshitted my way to a plot point with some vaguely sciencey words. So please suspend your disbelief and go with it. :)

Four months after the Project Insight disaster, the Winter Soldier shows up in New York. More specifically, in Stark Tower. Most specifically, in the conference room Steve, Natasha, and Sam are using to debrief with Maria Hill after taking out what they’re pretty sure is the last HYDRA stronghold. None of them actually see him enter. One moment it’s just the four of them and the next there he stands, blank-faced despite the three guns immediately pointed at him.

“Can you help me?” he asks, tone flat, voice gravelly. 

_Yes!_ Steve wants to scream. He wants to cheer. He wants to grin. He wants to cry.

But Bucky always knew when Steve was lying, and anyway, that’s not how he wants to start this off, whatever this is going to be.

“We’ll do everything we can,” is what he says instead. The words taste woefully inadequate and Steve tries not to choke on them.

SHIELD’s been compromised, but not everything is infected, or so Maria insists. Steve trusts her well enough, but it’s Natasha’s endorsement that convinces him. This psychiatrist is the best for the job. She has experience with this sort of thing.

(“No one has experience with this sort of thing,” Steve argues. “There’s never been this sort of thing before.”

“She’s worked with a lot of SHIELD agents and POWs,” Natasha says calmly. “And she helped Clint a lot after everything with Loki. She has the closest expertise we can hope to get.”)

It’s Bucky’s decision in the end, of course. Steve is insistent on that.

  
  


“I don’t understand,” Steve says flatly. 

“I know it’s not standard procedure for dealing with memory loss, but this is hardly a standard situation,” Dr. Torres replies calmly, shuffling some papers, including a print out of the brain scan she’d just been showing Steve and Natasha. “The damage done to his brain and its memory centers by the frequent memory wipes is extensive, and I can’t be sure what effect it will have, or if it will heal.”

The scans had been horrifying to look at, even with Steve’s limited knowledge of neuroscience.

“If the damage does begin to heal itself,” Dr. Torres continues, “which is the best case scenario, it will have to rebuild neural pathways and essentially regrow parts of the brain. It would be a highly delicate process, and since we know very little about how his memories are currently functioning, I’m afraid there’s a risk that discussing past events and memories with him might cause false memories to form, interrupting his recovery of actual memories. And if he does not in fact have real memories to compare them to, he might not be able to tell the difference.”

Steve leans forward, ignoring the cautioning look Natasha shoots him. “So you’re saying that we can’t tell him anything about the past.”

Dr. Torres pushes her glasses up her nose. “No. Impartial, factual information, like names or dates should be fine. It might trigger a memory but is unlikely to create one. Any descriptions of people or experiences, however, should be avoided.”

He knows from Natasha’s hand resting lightly on his arm that his expression must be concerning. He finds that in this moment he doesn’t care how frightening his scowl may be. To her credit, though, Dr. Torres meets his eyes steadily.

“I know this will be difficult for you, Captain Rogers, but it’s a temporary measure until we can evaluate how his brain is recovering and whether he can recover memories by himself. The fact you said he seemed to remember some things is a good sign, as is the fact he seems to have received some version of the super soldier serum. It will speed his healing and make memory recovery more likely. These are good signs, and I promise you this measure is in fact temporary.”

It isn’t comforting. _Temporary_. Everything in his life is temporary. Bucky was his only constant. Until he was gone. Temporary or not, this--concealing so much--doesn't feel like helping, and doesn’t feel like getting him back.

  
  
  


He wears the ring on the chain with his dog tags. (Before that it’d been on string, then a simple cheap chain.) He tells everyone it was his father’s, that his mother had worn it around her own neck after he’d died and that now he wears it to remember them both. No one ever questions it. Some of the showgirls even tear up at the story.

He’s wearing it when he goes under, and it’s still around his neck when he wakes up in SHIELD custody. He tells them the same story. They believe him. Everyone always does.

Natasha does, when she asks quietly after a mission. Sam does, when Steve is sitting at his kitchen table in a dirty tank top, eating breakfast and discussing how to infiltrate a high security military base. Peggy knew, but she doesn’t remember. 

Steve takes extra care to hide it once Bucky’s back. He’s not sure if it would count as going against the doctor’s orders, letting Bucky see it, even if he doesn’t explain. But he knows he can’t let Bucky see it for that reason: because he might have to explain. Steve feels more fragile than he has in years and it might actually kill him to have Bucky look at the ring without any recognition. But he can’t bring himself to take it off, the same way he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wear it before, even though it would finally fit his finger.

But he might as well be wearing it on his finger for all Bucky would notice. They’re almost never in the same room for longer than the few seconds it takes Bucky to leave after Steve arrives. When they are in the same space Bucky stays as far as possible from Steve. He avoids eye contact. He goes out of his way not to touch him.

Steve can take a hint.

He had promised to do everything he could to help Bucky with his recovery. And Bucky needs his space. Steve understands, really he does, and he’s making his peace with it. So he removes himself from the picture.

He starts avoiding the communal areas of the tower, or anywhere Bucky might go. He starts taking his daily runs outside instead of on the treadmill. And they start getting longer. One hour turns to two, then to three, four, five. Some days he’s out of the tower before five and doesn’t come back until late afternoon. 

Some days he just runs. Running is good. He runs all the way around New York and then does it again because he can, until even his super powered lungs are threatening to stop working altogether. He misses Bucky even more in those moments, when he feels like that sickly kid whose lungs couldn’t work for shit. He can almost feel Bucky's hand rubbing soothing circles on his back while he mumbles comforting words to hide his own terror. His chest aches in a way the serum should have fixed.

Some days he sits on a bench in Central Park and loses the world. He doesn’t see anything, doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t feel anything. He’ll shake himself out of it to see that hours have passed, that the sun has set, that people are hurrying past him with expressions ranging from pitying to terrified.

When he gets back to the tower, sometimes the others will ask him where he’s been. It happens less often than you’d think. He tells them he went to a museum, or that he saw a nice cafe on his run and stopped for lunch, or that he spent the afternoon reading up on recent history in the library. No one questions him. Steve wonders if he should feel bad for lying.

He’s pretty sure Tony thinks him physically incapable of lying, and Bruce can be hard to read but rarely looks doubtful. Even Natasha just tilts her head to the side and offers another person he should date (she doesn’t know—Steve’s been hiding for years and he’s damn good at it, couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and sometimes he so _desperately_ wants to) and updates him on Bucky (no—James, he wants to be called James for now). She and Sam are good about that. Sometimes Sam narrows his eyes like he knows something’s off but can’t figure out what, but he lets it slide.

Steve is a strategist, a tactician. He evaluates odds and courses of action, assesses the situation. He was a performer too, however much he hated it. 

Grieving, but coping. Optimistic and a bit unsure. Just enough frustration to be believable but not enough to be concerning. Steve smiles and laughs and everything is perfectly calculated and everyone is convinced he’s fine. He’s good at that. 

  
  
  


The thing is, Steve knows he’s not okay. He _knows_. He’s not sure what okay feels like exactly, but he knows it’s not this.

He’d been doing better. He’d been building a life. He wouldn’t say he’d been happy about it, but he’d been . . . stable. Not quite solid, but content enough.

SHIELD missions had given him a purpose, something he’d been struggling without. But then, well. It all fell apart. Nothing had been stable since that moment on the bridge when he’d seen Bucky’s face. And from there, well, from there it just got worse. And worse.

But anyway. The point is, he’s aware that he’s spiralling. 

It isn’t like teetering on the edge of a cliff. Steve has stood on cliffs before. No, it’s like--floating. Aimless. Or maybe freezing. 

(He’s sitting in his bedroom, 4 am, curtains drawn, walls soundproofed so well he feels like all he may ever hear again is just the pulse of blood in his ears and suddenly he’s back there, or maybe he never left, maybe this is all just a terrible, bizarre nightmare. And he’s cold, he’s so freezing--when he first crashed he thought the serum had worn off because he hadn’t been so cold since he was a pile of bird-frail bones beneath all three threadbare blankets in their Brooklyn apartment, limbs clattering with the force of their shaking, snow covering the world, frost on the windows, a glass of water he’d left on the table frozen solid. He’d have frozen solid, frozen to death without Bucky’s warmth. He’d have frozen to death before he was ten without Bucky, probably wouldn’t have survived long enough to freeze at all.)

The point--the point is--look, Steve’s already gotten more than he could ever have hoped for in this bizarre future just knowing Bucky’s alive, for a certain definition of the word. And he’s in a better place than he was when he first woke up. He’s got people this time.

But Natasha’s been busy working with Dr. Torres to help Bucky. She has the most similar experiences of any of them, and Bucky-- _James_ \--seems most comfortable with her, although apparently he’s taken to Clint as well. (He rarely sees Bucky interact with anyone for himself. He rarely sees Bucky.)

And Sam still has a life in D.C. to deal with. He’d spent a lot of time away hunting down HYDRA with Steve. He’s been talking about moving up to New York, being a full time Avenger, but for now he’s splitting his time and Steve can’t begrudge him that. Besides, despite Sam’s work as a counselor, he’s Steve’s friend, not his shrink. Steve can’t just dump all his problems on Sam and expect him to fix them. 

But there are others. There are--well, Tony and even Bruce still feel like coworkers more than anything, although he could see himself really getting along with Bruce. And he hasn’t spent much time with Clint. He trusts Maria to have his back if need be, and Fury is out there somewhere if something goes desperately wrong. No one’s heard from Thor since he left for Asgard, but Steve had enjoyed talking to him while he was here.

The point _is_ , he knows he’s not okay. But he has so much, he has no right to ask for more.

(Bucky’s voice, Brooklyn-rough, whispers in his mind _that’s a load of shit, Rogers, that ain’t how this works and you know it._ )

Look, the point is, he _knows_.

  
  
  
  


So, the ring. There had been two of them, of course. But HYDRA clearly hadn’t let Bucky keep his. (He’d worn it on a chain, too, wouldn’t have lost it with the arm.) They probably threw it away first chance they got, or maybe they kept it to taunt him, to torture him—anyway. There had been two, before.

The story he told everyone wasn’t _too_ far off, really. His ma had kept his father’s ring, though in her jewelry box, not around her neck. Steve had inherited it when she died. It wasn’t the one around his neck, though. No, he’d put it on Bucky’s finger one night, a little bit tipsy, grinning like a fool.

They’d known it was stupid and silly and would never mean anything to the world, but Bucky had come up with the idea and he’d always been a little bit sappy when it came to Steve, however much he tried to deny it. And Steve would deny it till his dying day and beyond, but maybe he was a little bit sappy about Bucky as well.

But the ring. It had been Bucky’s grandfather’s. He’d died well before the family moved to America and Bucky had never known him. But he had adored his grandmother (and Steve had too, they would sit for hours listening to her tell them folk tales and teach them Romanian lullabies) and when she was dying she gave the ring to Bucky and told him to wear it when he found the right person. Bucky had spent the rest of the evening staring moodily at the ring, twisting it between his fingers. A few times he glanced speculatively at Steve’s hand, but Steve ignored it. They were only thirteen at the time and hadn’t admitted to anything yet. It had probably just been wishful thinking.

But then Steve was eighteen and Bucky was sliding that ring onto Steve’s finger. It fell off immediately, of course, and they both laughed about it, Steve too happy to even be upset at his useless body.

They hadn’t said vows or anything—that was too sappy and they drew a line somewhere—but, well, it meant something. It meant everything.

  
  
  
  


Steve invites Sam to join him on his run. They leave at seven—a reasonable hour. They run a few miles in Central Park—a reasonable distance. Steve matches his pace to Sam’s, and when Sam stops, panting, Steve stops too. He looks longingly at the horizon—he could keep running and just never stop, never slow down, run until his feet wear away altogether and maybe so will he. He stops.

Steve smiles, carefully. It’s almost painful so he turns it to a smirk at the last second.

“You know, I think you’re really getting the hang of this running thing,” he tells Sam magnanimously. 

“Fuck you,” Sam manages, flipping him off as he chugs from his water bottle.

They stop at a hole in the wall diner for breakfast on their way back. Steve orders pancakes and scrambled eggs and realizes when it arrives he doesn’t remember the last time he ate an actual meal. He’d . . . he’d eaten yesterday, hadn’t he? 

Sam’s expression is understanding. Not smug or pitying or superior or any of the other things Steve wouldn’t have been able to bear.

“You doing okay?” It’s light, casual. Loaded. It’s like an iceberg, barely visible above the water, or like fifty questions all stacked in a trenchcoat, or, or--

Steve pokes at his eggs. He’s pretty sure he had some sandwiches yesterday. Or maybe last week? The box of energy bars in his kitchen is nearly empty. He frowns. His memory’s supposed to be better than this. 

Sam is still waiting for an answer.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t know the answer, because he does, he always has and Sam probably does too. No, it was never about _knowing._ It’s about—well, he’s not that sickly kid anymore. But he had been for twenty-five years. And Bucky had been right (Bucky was pretty much always right when it came to Steve), he did have something to prove. He still--look, you don’t forget how it feels to be a burden. And he’d never wanted--he can’t even remember ever telling Bucky he was anything but fine. (Not that it mattered, Bucky was the one person he’d consistently accepted help from, and he’d never had to ask, never had to say, Bucky had just, just _known_.)

But he can’t keep going like this. He knows that.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “No.”

  
  
  


When he leaves for his run the next morning, Natasha is waiting, dressed in workout gear and sipping from a water bottle. Steve isn’t surprised. After he’d talked to Sam yesterday, he’d known it was only a matter of time. He just raises his eyebrow and heads out. Natasha follows without a word.

They run in companionable silence for the length of several city blocks. Steve doesn’t even realize Natasha’s been steering them in a particular direction until she drags him by the arm into an upscale coffee shop. She orders them both fancy drinks Steve is sure will be packed with sugar, and then shoves him into a corner booth. From here they can both see all the doors and windows, and it would be impossible for someone to sneak up behind them.

Steve stares down at his drink. There’s an elaborate floral pattern in the foam and steam curling off the surface and for the first time in months, Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil.

“James has been asking about you. He’s worried.”

Something tightens in his chest. “He shouldn’t be worrying about me. He should just focus on his own recovery.”

Natasha shoots him a thoroughly unimpressed look. Steve sighs and focuses on another part of her statement. “If he’s been asking, why are you just telling me now?”

“Because you’re a better liar than I gave you credit for, Rogers.” Steve’s neck snaps up to look her in the eyes. That’s not what he expected to hear. “Until he asked, I hadn’t realized just how . . . well, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, slumping a little bit again. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“No, you aren’t. But you’re my friend.” The words are quiet, deliberate, and Steve can see how fragile they feel in her mouth. He musters up a tiny, genuine smile. She returns it and then gathers herself, an almost imperceptible straightening of her shoulders. 

Steve looks back down at the table. He feels vulnerable in a way he’s always hated, a way he hasn’t let himself be since quiet nights in Brooklyn when Bucky would unravel his defenses like the sleeves of his second-hand (fourth-hand, really) sweater. “So you didn’t tell me because you thought I was okay?”

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers. It doesn’t suit you.”

Steve shrugs. Of course he understood her implication. He’s known from the moment he saw her this morning that the timing was no coincidence. He indicates to Sam he wants to get better and only then does Natasha show up to say Bucky’s been worried. 

Steve hasn’t touched his drink, whatever it is. Doesn’t want to mess up the pattern. The lines are blurring at the edges. He twists the mug slowly until the handle is parallel with the edge of the table.

“How’s he doing? Aside from worrying?” It’s not what Steve wants to ask. Well, it is, but it’s not all he wants to ask. He wants to ask _is he remembering_? but doesn’t, can’t. It’s too much to ask, too much to expect. He’s giving him space. Steve feels ungrateful for even thinking about asking. Bucky’s _alive_ , he’s here, he’s recovering, he’s--he’s maybe not the same person he was, but it wouldn’t matter to Steve, he just needs him to _be_ , in whatever way he can get. But the question--that stupid question--keeps pushing at his mind and he hates it, hates it, knows Natasha sees it in his eyes, hell, can probably read his mind or something.

Natasha pauses. Deliberating. “I think you should ask him that.”

Steve manages not to recoil, but just barely. He clenches his hands tighter around the mug, ignoring the way the coffee sloshes, spilling out scalding liquid on his hand, pain lost in the sensation of the heat already burning into his palms from the ceramic.

“He asks about you and gets upset when we don’t know where you are,” Natasha continues. She takes a measured sip of her own drink. When she sets it down, she meets Steve’s eyes and leans forward. “I know you’re giving him space, but maybe he doesn’t need quite this much.”

“Did he tell you that?” Bucky’s actions had been clear: he needs space. Steve is giving him space. And to be honest, Steve isn’t sure how to give him any _less_ space than this without giving him none. There had never been space between them, before, and it would be so _easy_ to fall back on old habits. He’s terrified he’ll overstep before Bucky is ready. That he’ll set Bucky back or hurt him or push him too far or--

But if Bucky has requested it, he can try. 

“No.” Steve tries not to deflate. He didn’t even realize he was feeling hopeful until he wasn’t anymore. Natasha’s voice is almost stern when she continues. “But that’s a conversation the two of you need to have. And soon.”

Steve looks away. “Nat, I--” He doesn’t know how to finish. Doesn't know how to put this fragility into words.

Her expression softens. “I know, Steve. But you can’t go on like this forever, and you know it.”

He does. God, does he know.

“Clint and I are going to watch a movie later. If you aren’t there, you’ll have me to answer to.”

  
  


He’s there for the movie. Natasha shoves a bowl of popcorn into his arms and points to the couch. Twenty minutes into _The Princess Bride_ he finally relaxes and allows himself to enjoy the movie. It’s funny, and he even finds himself chuckling weakly.

Wesley has just been attacked by an R.O.U.S. when Bucky appears in the doorway. Steve tenses and hates himself for it.

Bucky pauses, assessing. After a few moments he settles into an armchair and asks what they’re watching. Clint responds, although Steve isn’t listening. He’s torn between staring at Bucky and trying to appear casual and not, well, not as pathetic as he feels. He’s pretty sure he fails at that last part. But he catches Bucky stealing glances at him almost as often as he steals glances at Bucky. So maybe it’s okay.

He thinks maybe he should say something, but then again he thinks he probably shouldn’t, and what would he say, even if it didn’t feel like his jaw was welded shut?

Bucky doesn’t leave and Steve doesn’t relax, too worried that it will prove too much, that Bucky will change his mind and remember how he can’t stand being in the same space as Steve. It doesn’t happen and Steve still doesn’t relax.

  
  
  


That night Steve wakes screaming three times before he decides he’s had enough sleep. (Enough for several lifetimes; what’s another night without?) It’s barely four am but he leaves for a run anyways. He doesn’t even break a sweat until eight. He doesn’t come back until noon.

  
  


Some days he still doesn’t see Bucky at all, not even a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

  
  


Some days he still runs as if one more lap may make Brooklyn look the way it used to.

  
  


But some days he sits in the communal living room, surrounded by the others, Bucky sitting near him, and his smile is genuine.

  
  
  


As he spends increasing amounts of time around Bucky, Steve is terrified he’ll slip up and push too far. He’s got twenty-odd years of muscle memory telling him to be as close to Bucky as possible at all times and, well, it’s not easy to change that sort of thing.

It happens at breakfast. Sam, apparently taking a page out of Natasha’s book, declares that he’s making breakfast and Steve is going to be there. Steve knows it’s because Sam is still worried about him, that he remembers that day at the diner and how Steve had stared at his food. Steve can’t really bring himself to be annoyed.

But anyways. Sam has just finished his own breakfast and left to go talk to someone at the VA about volunteering. Steve is sitting at the table of the common-floor kitchen, staring blankly at the wall and sipping his coffee. If he lets his eyes slide out of focus, he can almost pretend he’s back in Brooklyn, or at least that nothing’s wrong.

Someone walks in and he knows without looking that it’s Bucky. And he just, he doesn’t think. Bucky walks past and Steve’s muscle memory kicks in. He reaches out, snags Bucky’s belt loop and pulls him in, resting his head against Bucky’s stomach. It feels so good, so _right_ , that for a long moment Steve doesn’t realize what he’s done. And then it all comes crashing back.

He realizes how stiffly Bucky is holding himself, how he’s not responding, how the arm brushing his shoulder is too cold to be flesh, and suddenly Steve remembers. He lets go like it burns, jumps up, muttering apologies. He hears something hit the table and thinks maybe his coffee spilled but doesn’t look at it, doesn’t look at Bucky, just races from the room, muttering _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

  
  
  


The ring stays around his neck. He never has been able to bring himself to wear the ring on his finger, even once it fit. It’s practical, he tells himself, and it’s even true, at first. It might have raised questions he couldn’t really answer, not without consequences he really didn’t have time for. And he didn’t want to lose it, and, and--

When he woke up, he could have put it on. He could have. It’s just--his hands--well, he didn’t always want to be a soldier. And it’s not really that he ever wanted to be a soldier as much as he wanted to stop bullies, make the world fairer, fight _for_ people. So, he became a soldier. He doesn’t regret it, not really, not all of it, it’s just--

He was an artist. His hands--those thin, weak, mostly useless hands--they had been used to create. For all the fights he got into, they weren’t particularly gifted at destruction.

But now, now these hands—they’re blood soaked. They were designed to fight. To defend, yes, but also to attack. Sometimes it seems destruction is all they’re suited for. The first time he’d tried to draw after the serum, he’d snapped the pencil in half just trying to hold it.

This body was made to fight and it feels like that’s all it will ever do. There’s always another battle and Steve doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

  
  
  


After the breakfast incident, Steve doesn’t leave his apartment for three days. He’s going stir crazy, itching to go running or do something, but he doesn’t want to risk seeing Bucky, doesn’t want to face Sam or Natasha. So he stays in. He uses the punching bag in his living room—subpar next to those in the gym, but adequate—until his knuckles sport bruises that will actually stay for more than five minutes. They sting and he’s glad.

He tries to read some of the books piled around the apartment, a mixture of history books and novels people had recommended. He’s mostly used the internet to catch up on recent history, but he’s always been a bookworm at heart, and there’s something uniquely comforting about the feel of a book in his hands. But he finds himself zoning out, staring at the pages but only seeing that moment playing over and over: how uncomfortable Bucky had been, how much Steve had overstepped. He puts the books back on the shelf.

When Steve first came out of the ice, SHIELD had sent him to a therapist. It hadn’t helped much, largely because Steve was quick to figure out exactly what they wanted to hear. He hadn’t been ready to talk about everything. (Hadn’t been ready to get better.) But anyway. His therapist had given him a sketchbook and suggested he fill it with the things he wasn’t ready to talk about. He’d filled the entire thing with his nightmares--bombed-out buildings, abandoned towns, men dead and dying, Bucky falling, Bucky falling, Bucky falling. He’d snapped eleven pencils and three pens and had almost felt better.

He has a new sketchbook now. He’d meant to fill it with all the good things he’s found in the future, but his nightmares keep creeping in. Steve flips it open to a blank page and picks up a pencil. 

He still works in black and white: graphite, charcoal, ink. He can see all the colors now, could use them if he wanted. But there’s something almost comforting about the sweep of black and grays as he moves the pencil across the page. He lets himself zone out, focusing on nothing but the graphite smearing on his skin.

He freezes while shading in the clothing. Pauses. Leans back. He hadn’t realized what he was drawing, but now it’s staring up at him accusingly. It’s Bucky, the way he had been, before. Except his eyes. His eyes belong to the Winter Soldier. 

Steve tears the picture out of the sketchbook and hurls it at the wall.

  
  
  


He leaves his apartment the next day. He doesn’t go for a run. He takes his sketchbook and sits on a park bench just as the sun is starting to rise.

He takes a deep breath. Holds it. Breathes out. 

The first touch of colored pencil to paper is tentative, the second only slightly less so. But he keeps going, and slowly the sunrise takes shape under his hands. He feels his lips curl up into a smile. It’s not perfect--the colors are off and they don’t blend the way he’d wanted--but still, it’s a beautiful sunrise.

He draws a tree next, early morning light filtering green through the leaves. Then a blue jay sitting on the other end of the chipped white bench. He’s almost done with an image of bright yellow dandelions poking up through the cracks in the sidewalk when he senses someone approaching. He doesn’t look up as the other person settles on the bench next to him, keeping his eyes instead on his drawing.

“I’m sorry about the other morning,” he says after a minute.

Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “I was startled. I wasn’t mad.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Steve focuses on his drawing. It’s not as awkward as Steve feared.

“You never drew in color before.” Bucky’s voice is conversational, a little curious. Nothing to indicate how monumental his words are. At least to Steve.

“Well, I was colorblind before.” Steve knows he’s dangerously close to the line Dr. Torres drew for him. _Stick to facts_ , he reminds himself.

“It looks nice,” Bucky says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Helluva lot better than those weird paintings Stark decorated the tower with.”

“Abstract beige blobs not to your taste?” Steve asks archly, and it all feels so natural. 

“You were drawing better stuff when you were twelve,” Bucky scoffs.

Steve’s pencil pauses. “You’re remembering things?” He hopes it sounds casual. _Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push_ , he tells himself.

“Bits and pieces. It’s pretty random what memory’s gonna show up.” Bucky stares off to the side, following a dog and its owner with his eyes. “The other day I was looking through the file they gave me about my family. There was a picture you drew in there--of my sisters. And I remembered sitting in the kitchen, and I must have been about twelve, because Bunică was there. She was teaching Becca and Mary how to make cozonac, and you were sitting there at the table with baby Gracie on your lap, and you were trying to teach her how to draw.”

Steve remembers. It takes him a minute though; it had been such a normal scene for all of them. 

“I can remember how the kitchen smelled,” Bucky continues, frustration creeping into his voice, “and that you were drawing a dog, and the song Becca was singing while they worked.” He pauses, exhaling roughly. “But I can’t remember the day we met.”

Steve finishes the drawing, and his hands are only shaking slightly. “You know,” he says, and is proud that it doesn’t sound like he’s about to cry, “I can’t either. Sometimes I think I remember it, but it’s just what other people have told me.” He’d been barely four years old when he and Bucky met, can’t really remember a time in his life when Bucky wasn’t there.

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They’re watching a movie when Bucky remembers. Steve can’t remember what movie it is, but Tony had called it a chick flick when Natasha started it, and she had glared at him until he settled quietly into his seat next to Bruce. But the name of the movie isn’t important. The important bit is when one of the characters drops to one knee, holding out a ring.

Bucky tenses. Steve and Sam, sitting on either side of him, notice first. They tense as well, ready to react. But Bucky just reaches one hand slowly up to his throat, grasping at air. He makes a strangled, cut off noise, and the others are watching now, too.

He turns to Steve, and Steve feels his heart speed up. He doesn’t move as Bucky reaches forward, although Sam leans forward as well, as if wondering whether Bucky’s having a Winter Soldier flashback and should be stopped. Steve, though, knows what’s happening as Bucky’s hand pats blindly at his chest until it hits a lump. There’s something like hope and terror in Bucky’s eyes as he reaches beneath Steve’s collar and slowly pulls out the chain. Then he’s holding the ring in his palm and Steve thinks maybe both of them have stopped breathing.

“You still . . .” Bucky says, struggling for words.

Steve can feel the weight of the others’ stares. The movie is still playing in the background. “Yeah,” he shrugs, trying to come off as just casual enough, doesn’t want to pressure Bucky, doesn’t know what to do with the weight of all those stares. But then he thinks, _fuck it_ , and meets Bucky’s gaze. “Till the end of the line.” 

Bucky lunges at him. “You punk,” he mutters against Steve’s lips. The kiss is like everything Steve has ever wanted and all his greatest fears at once.

  
  
  


The moment doesn’t last long. Tony makes some comment and then Clint joins in and soon enough the movie is over and everyone is going to bed and Steve still isn’t confident that he didn’t just hallucinate the whole thing.

The next morning he leaves the tower well before dawn and runs until he can’t feel his legs and he can’t hear his thoughts and his whole chest burns like radio static.

Bucky is waiting when he gets back to the tower.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just shoves a water bottle at Steve’s chest and watches with a scowl as Steve drinks the whole thing.

“You’re an idiot,” is what he says eventually, once Steve has finished the water and moved on to fidgeting with the empty bottle and avoiding Bucky’s accusing gaze.

There’s a lot Steve could say in response to that. _I’m your idiot_ , maybe, or, _You’re a jerk_ , if he’s feeling bold. He could demand an explanation, or protest the descriptor entirely. Instead, he makes the tactical choice to say nothing, just shrugging slightly and staring over Bucky’s right shoulder.

The sigh Bucky lets out is as familiar as it is frustrated, and Steve begs his eyes not to tear up.

This, everything between them--the space, the silence, that kiss--feels unbearably fragile, like if Steve makes one wrong move (pushes too far, says too much, gets too close), it will all shatter. And it’s wrong--it’s so viscerally wrong. Nothing between them has ever been fragile before.

But then Bucky crosses the room in the time it takes Steve to blink. One second and suddenly he’s there, crowded in Steve’s space, hand resting over the ring against Steve’s chest, and Steve feels like he can finally breathe, because _oh_ , maybe this isn’t so fragile after all.

“I remember this.” Bucky’s hand presses harder against the ring, warmth seeping through Steve’s shirt. “But I don’t remember the first time we kissed.” He meets Steve’s gaze steadily. “And I _do_ remember blowing a ten-year-old’s brains out.”

Steve bites back his automatic response of _That wasn’t you_ , but he’s sure Bucky can see it in his eyes anyway. Instead, he raises his own hand to rest over Bucky’s. Solid. Steady. Not fragile. Bucky takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look away.

Steve knows what he’s about to say, knows the point he’s trying to make. It’s a warning he’s heard from just about everyone else by now.

“I’m not the same person you knew.”

A smile--tiny and hesitant but so very genuine--curls at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I’m not sure I am, either.”

It’s not the same, Steve _knows_ that. But it’s also true. He’s not the same person that went into the ice. And that wasn’t the same person that joined the army in the first place. So no, it’s not the same, but Bucky’s not the only one who was made into a weapon.

He’s not the only one putting the pieces back together and finding someone new.

Slowly, deliberately, Bucky brings his left hand up to cup Steve’s face, but freezes just shy of actually touching. Without breaking eye contact, Steve pushes his own cheek firmly against the metal palm, relishing in the unyielding coolness.

Bucky’s eyes—which belong neither to Sergeant Barnes nor the Winter Soldier, but someone new and in between—are awash with something Steve couldn’t name if he tried, but that he feels so strongly it makes his whole being ache with it.

“I’m gonna need a new ring,” is all Bucky says, whispered into the rapidly decreasing space between them, and then his mouth is on Steve’s and it doesn’t taste like fear at all. It tastes like _home._

Steve’s not naive. He knows this won’t magically fix everything. Maybe tomorrow he’ll still freeze when Bucky reaches for him, or he’ll run until he can’t feel his feet. But maybe he’ll go to the art museum like he’s been meaning to, or he’ll have breakfast with the team and not fake a single smile.

Maybe he’ll start wearing the ring on his finger.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr at teatraysandtypewriters!


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